“I don’t know who you are,” he remarked at length; “but you seem to be on the level.”

“I am on the level,” returned Carroll quietly.  “My name is David Carroll—­”

“O-o-oh!  So you’re David Carroll?” The query was a sincere tribute.

“Yes, I’m Carroll, and I’m working on the Warren case.  I don’t want to cause trouble for any one, but there are certain facts which I must learn.  You can tell me some of them.  No person who is innocent has the slightest thing to fear from me.  And so—­Barker—­if you have nothing to conceal, I’d advise that you talk frankly.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to conceal.  What made you think I had?”

“I don’t think so.  I don’t think anything definite at this stage of the game.  I want to find out what you know.”

“I don’t know nothin’, either.”

“H-m!  Suppose I learn that for myself!  I’ll start at the beginning.  Your name is William Barker?”

“Yes.  I told you that once.”

“Where is your home?  What city have you lived in mostly?”

The man hesitated.

“I was born in Gadsden, Alabama, if that’s what you mean.  Mostly I’ve lived in New York and around there.”

“What cities around there?”

“Newark.”

“Newark, New Jersey?”

“Yes.  An’ in Jersey City some, and Paterson, and a little while in Brooklyn.”

“You met Mr. Warren where?”

“In New York.  I was valet for a feller named Duckworth, and he went and died on me—­typhoid; you c’n find out all about him if you want.  Mr. Warren was a friend of Mr. Duckworth’s, an’ he offered me a job.  We lived in New York for a while and then we come down here.”

“How long ago?”

“’Bout four years—­maybe five.”

“What kind of a man was he—­personally?”

Carroll watched his man closely without appearing to do so.  He saw Barker flush slightly, and did not miss the jerky nervousness of his answer—­that or the forced enthusiasm.

“Oh, I reckon he is all right.  That is, he was all right.  Real nice feller.”

“You were fond of him?”

“I didn’t say I was in love with him.  I said he was a nice feller.”

“Treated you well?”

“Oh, sure—­he treated me fine.”

“And yet he discharged you yesterday.”  Then Carroll bluffed.  “Without notice!”

Barker looked up sharply.  His face betrayed his surprise; showed clearly that Carroll’s guess had scored.

“How’d you know that?”

“I knew it,” returned Carroll.  “That’s sufficient.”

Barker assumed a defensive attitude.

“Anyway,” said he, “that didn’t make me sore at him, because he give me a month’s pay; and that’s just as good as a notice, ain’t it?”

“Ye-e-es, I guess it is.”  Carroll hesitated.  “Did he pay you in cash?”

“Yeh—­cash.”

Again Carroll hesitated for a moment, while he lighted a cigarette.  When he spoke again, his tone was merely conversational, almost casual.